A (Well Past) Midnight Dreary
by thosepedanticlunatics archive
Summary: Worry is the harbinger of fear. It's not fair that the Scarecrow, of all people, should be subjected to it. A fluffy one shot. Y'know. If that's the kind of thing you're into. (T for language.)


**Content Warnings:** Language, insipid rosewater garbage

xxxxxx

It was a wretched night. Not on account of the weather, fortunately, nor by virtue of especially poor mental health, as Jonathan was glad to note that he hadn't been subject to a psychotic episode in weeks. He wasn't uncomfortable _physically,_ in fact quite the opposite. By some brilliant stroke of luck, he and Jervis had found themselves occupying some older couple's summer home on the outskirts of town, with a real bed and indoor plumbing and everything. This current base of operations was a haven. But even with those blessings in mind, Jonathan was still miserable, and he was quite certain that he would remain so until at least daybreak. It shouldn't have been that way though. All things considered, he (and Jervis, by proxy) had been on a win-streak lately. The last three jobs he'd pulled were all consecutive successes that left the authorities reeling, and on top of that, he hadn't seen the inside of Arkham since the heat of August. It was November now. For the time being, the only beast that really burdened him was his insomnia, which was admittedly severe. It was also, coincidentally, the affliction that was making his night so ghastly. Crane had spent countless hours since early childhood lying wide awake; cursing and miserable, completely at his devastated sleep cycle's mercy. Whether he tossed and turned or splayed out perfectly still mattered little, all of his attempts to settle were pathetically moot. He would always start out the same, willful and even combative, assuring himself that _he would be sleeping tonight,_ but his initial frustrations always sputtered eventually, fading into exhausted resignation that wore on until morning's muddy light made itself apparent. Some nights were worse than others, but the ones that consisted of no sleep at all usually resulted in a day lost to a bleary, winking mind and possible substance abuse. And isn't that always good for a lark? Of course it is.

The absolute worst part though, the biggest kick to the face, was that more often than not, the Nighttides of No Sleep occurred at random. At this moment, he had no business being awake at 3:41 in the morning. He had no reason or explanation for this horrible incurable consciousness, not that he ever did.

Wait. No. That was a lie. He did have reason this time, but that didn't make the situation any better. If anything, it made him feel worse, and he shifted to lie on his side, feeling his chest tighten with worry. _'Worry is the harbinger of fear,'_ a cold and educated chunk of his consciousness recited. Somewhere from the dank Hell that was the man's right brain, a selfish footnote flashed to life and attached itself to that postulation: _'It's not fair that The Scarecrow, of all fucking people, should be subject to **that.'**_

Without his glasses on, the professor's vision was blurry, but he still managed to stare intently at the unused portion of the mattress, where Jervis would have been resting on a normal night.

_More worry._

Damn.

Tonight The Hatter was out, having taken on some new and inane solo project several days prior. All Jonathan knew of the matter was that it was still in the early stages of preparation, and that tonight's escapade was going to be "tricky," by Tetch's own admission. He refused to supply any details beyond that. It was a _surprise,_ the Hatter had said. To hell with that.

Jonathan grumbled and shifted onto his back. Everything about this situation was stupid. Here he was, one of Gotham's most wanted criminals, waiting inertly in bed for his stupid _life partner_ to finish up with his stupid _work_ like a stupid, passive _housewife._

Except when you're a housewife, he mused bitterly, if your husband should, say, _die on the job, _you'd at least get a phone call or something.

If anything ever happened to Jervis while he was out alone, it could take his partner days to verify his fate. He could be skipping town, being held prisoner, or decomposing in a gutter somewhere, and Jonathan would never be the wiser. A debacle of that nature could only lead to wasted time, effort, resources, and a great deal of heartache, so this facet of their life together wasn't just nerve-wracking, it was also extremely impractical. Suppose for instance—

The sound of a door slamming shut rattled the doctor from his inner monologue, and it was soon followed by a weary groan and some distant fumbling. There was only one person who could be responsible for those noises in this place at that hour. Jonathan felt a wash of relief. He sat up and checked the time. It was well past four in the morning by then, but it didn't matter. He wouldn't have to spend any more time dwelling on hypothetical misfortunes, at least not for the rest of the day anyway. That's what mattered.

He spent another minute or two alone, listening to the shuffle of feet and miscellaneous clatter until Jervis finally appeared in the doorway, looking shabby and immeasurably fatigued. Uneven tufts of hair stuck up unruly in every direction, some of which appeared to be charred at the ends. The fact that he was accompanied by a faint electrical smell confirmed this as more than a trick of the light. He was also covered in all manner of tiny scrapes and bruises, and his face was locked in an expression of dazed alarm. He was going to need a quick medical examination, Crane had silently decided. He was also missing his right shoe.

Still upright, the academic watched dubiously as his companion tried (and failed) to hang his tarnished coat up on the rack. After some effort, The Hatter elected to abandon it on the floor and immediately crashed into bed with a pitiful grunt. His partner laid back down and gathered him up fondly, but his tone remained steely and aloof as usual.

"Remove your shoe," he said.

Jervis obeyed without a word, messily kicking his lone boot away, complete with one unfastened spat. His body tensed comfortably for a moment, like a cat stretching its muscles, before completely relaxing. Thankful for the security, the contused and now hatless Hatter nestled into the embrace, latching on with tenacity. Instances when Jonathan initiated this manner of contact were fairly infrequent, emotionally standoffish as he was, and Jervis might have relished it more if he weren't catatonic with exhaustion. As such, he conked out instantaneously, and at that, his consort decided to put off the injury check until after daybreak. The poor thing obviously needed sleep more than anything else at the moment.

He took a moment to run a hand though Tetch's hair, partly out of affection and partly with the intent of tempering it back into its usual lineaments. This attempt resulted in failure, as did any following attempts of getting to sleep. He'd foolishly thought that his bedfellow's presence might quell his insomnia, but any such hopes were apparently dashed. His sleeplessness usually mattered naught by this hour anyways, as the remaining time allotted for repose, even if he used all of it (which he wouldn't) wasn't enough. So it wasn't worth it. The enervated professor sighed in resignation.

He pressed his chin into Jervis's singed hair and squeezed his small shoulders gently. What was left of the night (or rather, the early morning now) would surely be as big a waste of time as the hours that had come before, but at least they'd gotten a lot less afflictive


End file.
